Somewhere Beyond Reproach (10 page)

Each morning I waited for the post with a mixture of
eagerness
and dread. At work Tim was gloomy. I did little to help him. ‘We ought to get out of the haulage side altogether,’ he would often say. Some bright boys in road research had discovered that one fully loaded lorry had the same wearing effect on a road as five thousand cars. Added to this was the huge annual loss made by British Railways. Also with road congestion getting worse it was easy and not altogether unfair to blame lorries for still slower traffic flow. If we sold out we’d lose. Nevertheless the process was started. The
property
market did not look much better either. There was little or no buying and selling.

Each day that I did not hear seemed infinitely empty. I had taken to spending some of my lunch hour in Hyde Park. One afternoon I was watching a child playing while his father dozed on a bench. The child’s eye was caught by a piece of coloured paper that was being blown past. He started to follow. The father dozed on. A hundred yards away the child turned, looked about and let out a terrible scream of grief. Suddenly nothing, the reason for running forgotten, and Daddy gone. I thought I remembered the same feeling of utter isolation and sudden deprivation. And then more
recently
the hall and my unread postcards. With a twinge of fear I saw my empty post-box. Would it be tomorrow?

It was not the following day or even the one after that. I waited over two weeks. Even my two outings with Dinah had made me long just to
see
her again. Only that. I did not forget the auction either. She didn’t come. I bought the
miniature for seventy-five pounds. I kept it in a drawer and looked at it often. One day I would give it to her. She would thank me with tears of gratitude in her eyes. The expression on the seated woman’s face still caused me anger. What right had anybody got to look so certain? Perhaps if we ever quarrelled and parted I could give it to her then. Instead of going she would take me in her arms. I still had little to help me but my dreams. The letter when it came was short and to the point:

Not even signed with her Christian name. No, I’m
self-dramatising
. I didn’t expect that. The ‘pretty informal’ caused me a wry smile. Doubtless it had given her one as she wrote it. I had thought fairly carefully about the coming meeting. She too might have cause for unease. I was sure that she had been truthful about her incapacity to lie to Simpson. This being the case he must realise the extent of my former involvement with Dinah. I wondered if he was going to tell her that I had followed him. I felt he would probably not wish to bring up the stick incident. In some ways there was considerable comfort to be gained from her decision to make this invitation. I now felt certain that this was not some ghastly joke at my expense. It might well be a token of a desire to take me seriously. Yet how much more they knew than I. They had been together for ten years. Tennis again. I can’t get it out of my head. Two against one. The three of us had played together two. against one.

Did they have many friends? Was she lonely? What did she feel about the Bible Bookshop?

I had some comfort in the knowledge that she had not been to the auction. The excursion to Sotheby’s seemed to
have been solely to see me. I was still most uncertain of a lot. If there was to be a future, how much would she still have to tell Mark? How long would these dinners go on? On the other hand would there even be one more? If Mark hated the sight of me or said that he did, would she then not see me again? Perhaps she wanted me to challenge him in some way. I had moments of hope and elation, often swiftly followed by misery in case I should do the wrong thing.

On the day I decided to wear the suit I had been to work in, rather than attempt anything ‘pretty informal’.

*

The tiled floor, the heavy doors of the lift, the marquetry elephants and palm trees on the sides of the lift. This time no Andrew to meet me. I walked along the corridor to the door of the flat.

Simpson opened the door and gave me a smile that was almost confidential, as if to say: ‘I wish I knew what all this is about.’ I noticed that the laundry basket and the folded wheelchair had been removed. The long table was not
cluttered
with papers, the doors of the bathroom and study were closed. Simpson took my coat in the hand not occupied with holding his stick. I looked around to see if there was any sign of Andrew. His presence would have made me feel more at ease. He must have guessed what I was thinking.

‘Dinah’s in the kitchen getting supper ready.’

‘And Andrew?’ I asked.

‘Staying with a friend. Now what’ll you have? I’m afraid it’s just gin or sherry.’

I chose gin. I saw him move a small table slightly to the right.

‘One only starts to realise the full advantages of furniture when one’s lame,’ he said smiling. ‘I can get round this room without using a stick just by leaning on the furniture.’

He saw me hesitating before sitting down.

‘I never sit in any of the arm-chairs so take your pick. I have to sit a bit higher off the ground.’

He demonstrated this by sitting on an uncomfortable-
looking
upright-backed chair.

‘I can get off this one quite easily. It’s sad really —
everybody
used to admire my achievements and now they don’t notice. I used to be able to yell: “I’ve done up one of my shoe laces,” and everybody in the flat would come running.’

I wondered how long he’d go on talking. I was already feeling quite grateful. He said looking at the floor:

‘Of course one advantage of having the furniture
strategically
placed in here is that I don’t have to use a stick with all these pocket handkerchief rugs about.’

‘I think they’re attractive nevertheless,’ I cut in amiably. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Dinah picked them up at various auctions.’ He paused. ‘I gather you bumped into her at Sotheby’s. Do you collect anything?’

‘No, I was just wandering around,’ I said foolishly.

‘I think she was keen to buy a particular miniature, but then she couldn’t get to the auction at the last moment.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘Well I don’t know that you can say that,’ his smile
assuming
a new significance. ‘After all it would have been
embarrassing
to have to bid against her. I went instead but arrived too late. They gave me the name of the person who bought it.’

‘If you really are keen to have it I’m sure I’d let you have it for the price I gave.’

‘You’d better tell Dinah that.’

‘Why was she so keen to have that one?’

‘Some ancestor of her father I think.’

Worse and worse. I looked around the room; there were no miniatures about. Simpson said:

‘Anyway it’s nice to know where it’s gone.’

I cast around for some way to change the subject. My eye lighted on the upright piano.

‘I don’t remember you playing.’

‘I took it up in hospital. Occupational therapy. Better than making teddy bears. I never got very good.’

‘Did you do anything else?’ I thought he looked uneasy for a moment. Had he noticed the loss of those pages?

‘I read a lot about plant life. Got quite absorbed.’

‘You should see all the books in his bedroom,’ Dinah said, coming into the room.

His
bedroom. So they slept apart. I remembered his
observation
in the typescript that polio did not lessen sexual desire. Dinah said to me:

‘I expect he’s been boring you about how clever he’s been with the placing of the tables and chairs.’

I shuddered. The old married couple chaffing each other about their pet topics. Then I noticed the curling smile at the corner of her lips.

‘Come in to dinner now anyway.’

The dining room was small. Like Simpson’s study it looked out on to the well. The table could at a pinch have seated six. The walls were almost bare. A flower piece over the
sideboard
. We went in first. Dinah followed with a tray.

‘I hope nobody objects to chicken chasseur?’

I assured her that I was sure it would taste as good as it looked. Simpson did not comment. I was sitting between them. I wondered whether Dinah enjoyed cooking. Was there usually a bowl of flowers in the middle of the table? Dinah asked me if I’d open the wine and pour out. I remembered a time in Africa when I had taken a job as a wine-steward. Wiping the glasses ostentatiously and
cupping
a napkin under the neck of the bottle to avoid any drips had always ensured a decent tip. This time I contented myself with a slight twist of the bottle and the use of my napkin. Dinah smiled as I filled her glass.

‘Goodness, you are experienced.’

‘I was once a wine-waiter,’ I said, not without a touch of pride at the breadth of my experience. Without you I would never have been one, I thought. They did not take me up on my revelation, so my fund of amusing anecdotes on this subject remained untapped. As we ate, to begin with the whirring of the fan heater was the only noise. Neither Dinah nor Simpson seemed worried by the silence. Dinah was
wearing a faded pair of blue slacks and a white sweater that emphasised her breasts. Her youthful clothes and
graceful
neatness contrasted with her husband’s balding head and sagging cardigan. He looked fatter. I wondered how much was due to atrophied muscles. What could I say? If I asked Simpson what he was doing for a living, he would be able to point out that I had already found out for myself. Impossible to say: how strange it is to be sitting here so soon after meeting them both by chance. I imagined Dinah’s inward laughter greeting everything I could possibly say. Since the subject of the miniature had to be broached sooner or later and since it would be better not to allow Mark to introduce it, I said:

‘I expect you’ve been told by Mark that I bought the
miniature
you wanted. If he’d given me time I’d have explained that I got it so that nobody else would stop you having it.’

Simpson looked at me with what I suspected might be admiration.

‘That was very sweet of you, Harry. Did you think I wasn’t going to make it?’

‘He wanted it for himself and wasn’t going to let on either,’ said Simpson jovially. ‘I just happened to find out who’d bought it.’

This was beginning to become tiresome. I managed a smile.

‘Really I can’t let that pass. Dinah will tell you that I didn’t ever really like it.’ I gave her an appealing look. She said with affected disappointment:

‘But you said the detail was fantastic.’ Suddenly petulant: ‘You said it just to please me.’

‘That’s right,’ I said smiling. ‘Lies have been told for less noble reasons.’

I seemed to have won. The topic was dropped. I felt quite pleased. The thing could have caused considerable
embarrassment
. I felt that if I chose the subjects for conversation I would be in less danger.

‘Do you often go to Tewkesbury these days?’ I asked Mark.

‘No.’

‘I’m afraid Mark’s father died two years ago,’ Dinah said softly.

I murmured condolence and reapplied myself to my food. This, I reflected, would have made Mark a rich man. There was little to show for it here. Dinah must resent this. I enjoyed the thought of Mrs Lisle’s probable feelings about this. I wondered what they’d done with all the furniture.

‘I suppose you let the house now?’ I asked.

Simpson nodded. He seemed disinclined to say any more about it. Nevertheless I pressed on:

‘Have you ever thought of selling the place?’

‘Yes. I might want to go back there some day. So I’m hanging on.’ He sounded bored. I felt angry that I, their guest, should not be given more help. Simpson added as an
afterthought
, ‘My mother has to have somewhere to live.’ I felt that he had deliberately left this most obvious factor to the last to make me appear foolish. Why had he let it then? She was living in part of it. Was I imagining that he was getting at me? I tried to think of Mrs Simpson to get rid of my anger. I saw her with a wicker basket over her arm coming into their kitchen and depositing a huge pile of plums and
black-currants
. Her fingers were always stained with fruit juice, her face weather-worn like a dried apricot. When I poured out more wine I did not bother with the napkin. Correctly I poured for Dinah first, then walked round the table to deal with Mark. I must have tripped over his stick which he had laid on the floor by his chair. I didn’t spill much wine but what I did spill went on his shirt.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I murmured.

‘I hope you didn’t do that when you were a wine-steward,’ he said in a way that made the remark only half-humorous. Why the hell had I bothered to tell them?

‘Can I get a wet cloth or anything?’

Dinah started to laugh.

‘You don’t want to drown him in water as well, do you?’

I was grateful to her. Simpson managed a weak smile. He looked enormously comic with the red wine splattered down
his chest like blood. I was mad to laugh but I couldn’t help it. I saw his eyes narrow in his chubby face. He had not always been fat. Now as he stared at me he looked like a plump schoolboy who had been suddenly overtaken by middle age. Dinah looked at him without apparent disapproval, or for that matter approval. I could see that she was interested in the possible outcome of this absurd new development.

‘That stick of mine again,’ Mark said playfully. ‘I don’t think where I put it, sometimes I even forget it and try tottering off without it.’ He watched me carefully to try and gauge my reaction. I was surprised that he had alluded to an incident which could easily be told at his expense, and yet could it? He had suggested I left Dinah alone and I hadn’t done so. I looked at Dinah, who seemed to have decided to take the role of spectator. Simpson playful again: ‘I hope you’re not embarrassed this time anyway.’

‘No, you’ve put me completely at ease.’

‘Good, I’m so glad.’ My jovial host clapped his hands and said to Dinah, ‘What’s for pudding?’

It turned out to be raspberry flan. Mark took a few
mouthfuls
and said:

‘I was really awfully pleased when you accepted my wife’s invitation to come this evening.’

‘Very nice of you,’ I murmured. He ignored my interjection and went on:

‘It showed that you meant what you said at lunch the other day, the bit about my being worth more than a few stilted words in a cheap restaurant.’

Dinah looked surprised. He evidently hadn’t told her about our lunch. I smiled at Simpson and said:

‘I’m surprised you ever doubted me.’

‘Of course I didn’t. Just that you seemed angry about something at the time.’ Delightful dimples appeared in his chubby cheeks as he said this. This time I was determined not to lose the slightest fraction of control. I said calmly:

‘I was just offended that you should have considered my judgement of you to be entirely governed by your disability and appearance.’

Badly phrased though this was, he was left momentarily with nothing to say.

After a few more mouthfuls of flan he said:

‘Nevertheless you were nice enough to allude to my
condition
by assuring me that you felt certain I didn’t
feel
different.’ I was amazed at the accuracy of his memory of our meeting. Dinah cut in, laughing:

‘That isn’t true anyway. He returned home a different man in body and mind.’ I was pleased to see that Simpson didn’t find this at all amusing. It confirmed my feeling that she was not by any means delighted at her husband’s new occupation. She turned to me and confided: ‘He’s writing a book about religion and suffering. You wouldn’t have done that without your illness, would you, darling?’ I thought of the notes he had written. The reason why the drawer was unlocked now became apparent. He would miss those pages, probably had done already. I looked at him and imagined his discomfort with pleasure. I decided to discomfort him still further. I said:

‘I suppose you’re going to knock down the argument that most people who turn to God in illness do so because there’s nothing else left for them?’

He looked at me as though some terrible doubt had
suddenly
been resolved. I wondered how a religious man could manage to square a look of such hatred with his principles. But then I reflected that the God who had appeared in
Simpson’s
pages had had a distinctly Old Testament flavour.

‘I don’t think knocking down that argument would fill a book,’ he said, as though determined to dismiss the subject. I pretended not to have noticed the tone of voice he had said this in.

‘Well I’ve never been able to take the view that the gods punish those they love.’

Simpson was now making no effort to go on eating. His anger was obvious. This last remark was taken as a direct challenge.

‘I should prefer the word
remind
to the word
punish.
It makes better sense.’ I could not resist what I said next.

‘Roosevelt called infantile paralysis a rather unpleasant reminder of infancy.’

Not only had I made a joke in bad taste, but I had also side-stepped a discussion that Simpson would have won. I did not feel repentant though. He had not spared me earlier. Was this a token of love that must punish to be of use? Dinah suggested we had coffee in the sitting room. She gave no indication of what she had made of our exchange. I felt certain that Mark knew who had taken those pages.

I had started to feel a strange elation. I decided not to tell Simpson what a friend of a friend had seen on a hoarding outside a non-conformist church in south London: ‘Drink is thy worst enemy.’ Then further down on that very
hoarding
, I had been assured, was: ‘Make thy worst enemy thy best friend.’ Dinah handed me my coffee. There was little more conversation. Mark put on a record. Brahms’s piano concerto. Not that other piece. I still remembered the tears in his eyes. A sudden pang of pity. What had Jane the therapist said? ‘Anything is better than showing pity for a patient.’ ‘Patient’ I reflected meant one who suffered.